Mr Wonderful
by CeeKim
Summary: AU. After years of living in the shadows, secretary Matthew Williams no longer believes in achieving his dreams. After an unexpected meeting with a French man with sparkling blue eyes, Matthew, for once, finds himself at the center of someone's world.
1. Chapter 1

"Mr. Wonderful" a Franada fanfic

AU. After a lifetime of being forgotten and living in the shadows, lowly secretary Matthew Williams no longer believes in achieving his dreams. Following an unexpected collision with an odd French man with sparkling blue eyes, Matthew, for once, finds himself at the center of someone's world.

_Revisions made: April 26, 2012_

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><p>After a month of living here, Matthew wasn't sure if coming to New York was one of his better ideas or one of his worst. There were too many people filling the perpetually crowded streets of the Big Apple. It was easy to be overlooked, and for a person like Matthew Williams, those chances were nearly 100 percent certain. Sure, he was bumped into more often than not, but at least he hadn't been robbed. It seemed that even in a huge city like New York, pickpockets had more interesting targets to go after like the women wearing enormous fur coats, their Coach bags no doubt filled to the brim with valuables. Compared to Canada's freezing temperatures, the cold here wasn't so bad. New York had the skating rink at the Rockefeller Center as well as the one deep within the heart of Central Park. However, the main reason that he had finally decided to leave his tiny hometown in Canada and move to the largest city in the US was his brother.<p>

Alfred F. Jones owned one of the largest businesses in the city. Upon retiring, Jones Senior had passed Jones & Company his son in the hopes that Alfred would bring it back to the top of the business world. He was not disappointed. Within months of taking over the company, Alfred had given the company a new name—AM Advertising, which had risen above and beyond its competitors. Almost single-handedly, Alfred had secured business deals with foreign companies in China, Japan, and Italy. Handsome, charismatic, outgoing, and everything Matthew was not; Alfred outshone Matthew in every way possible. Perhaps it was for this reason that, despite the fact that he was publicly gay, no one seemed to hold it against him. With the one year anniversary of the business' birth fast approaching, Alfred had decided that he needed someone good with managing files, careful with planning events, and who possessed the skills to make a mean cappuccino: just the right amount of froth, a mocha wafer stick to the side, and a fancy leaf design on the surface to top it all off. Alfred had immediately called in Matthew who he claimed could make the meanest, richest, roughest cappuccino he had ever had—though how a cappuccino could be considered rough and mean, Matthew had no idea.

In a way, Matthew was flattered by the compliments. In another way, he was a bit insulted. It was true that Matthew wasn't as talented and charismatic as his brother, nor was he as handsome or athletic. Despite that, Matthew cared for his brother, which was the reason he now stood at the sparkling, sliding glass doors heading to AM Advertising. He had been here for an entire month, yet the enormity of this place never ceased to amaze him.

"Matt!"

Matthew nearly jumped out of his skin. No one called his name that way except for…

Arms were thrown around him. "Hey bro. You're here early."

Matthew smiled weakly and attempted to straighten under the extra weight. "Alfred."

"Another beautiful morning, eh?" Alfred giggled as though he had told an incredibly funny joke. Matthew smiled a little, decided not to point out the fact that the sky looked stormy and was darkening with the promise of rain, and tried to untangle himself from his brother. "You're early too, Alfred. You don't usually get here until later."

Alfred gave him a secretive smile and beckoned Matthew closer. "See, I was on my way to work—well, here," Alfred gestured at the gargantuan building, "and then I saw it."

Matthew raised a brow. "_It_?"

"The most beautiful man I've ever seen." Alfred had a slightly dreamy look in his blue eyes. "He had these awesome looking eyebrows, hair the color of…of…" He trailed off and looked around. He gasped and pointed at a passing taxi. "Like that. And his eyes, Matty. Oh, his eyes..." Alfred trailed off again. Matthew sighed and took his love-struck brother's arm, steering him inside. They boarded the elevator, and Matthew prodded his brother for the rest. Knowing Alfred, they would be in a meeting when Alfred finally got around to telling him about this mysterious beauty's eyes.

"His eyes?"

"They were so _green_. They were like the color of your tie."

Matthew looked down at himself. "My tie is blue."

"Oh."

"I'm sure you mean _your_ tie, Alfred." Matthew pointed to Alfred's emerald colored tie.

Alfred turned to him, a big grin covering his face. "Yeah. Like my tie. Man, Matt. You should've seen him. You know what he said to me?"

"Hm?"

"'What the bloody hell, you foppish twit? Watch where you're going. This is a new, bloody suit, and now you've gone and bloody ruined it, you bloody Yank!'" Alfred looked inappropriately proud that he had managed to be cussed out by a complete stranger. "He was _British_."

Matthew chuckled at his brother and decided not to mention the fact that since this man was a foreigner, he probably wouldn't be staying in the US long. Life just wasn't fair sometimes, even to people like Alfred. True love doesn't happen by just colliding with someone.

.

The week crawled by the same way the past four had—slow, boring, and uneventful. Alfred's office was usually filled with joyous, raucous laughter while Matthew's cubicle just outside was as silent as ever.

It seemed that Alfred's encounter with the British man had lifted his already high spirits. He proceeded to leave work early and drag Matthew with him, despite the fact that both had only arrived at the office five hours ago.

Matthew sometimes wondered how Alfred could afford to be so lax with his work ethic, but even when he had just been a CEO of Jones and Co., the boisterous American always seemed three steps ahead of the competition. This was the main reason why Matthew protested very little as Alfred dragged him to what Matthew suspected was the direction of the skating rink in Central Park. He was not disappointed.

They entered through the tall iron gates of the park. The trees were bare, the grass was brown, and small, stubborn lumps of snow clung to the ground. Children were clambering all over the Balto statue and barely spared Alfred and Matthew a glance as they walked briskly by.

It wasn't long before Matthew could hear the dull roar of too many people crowding a small space and skates cutting through the choppy ice.

Alfred gave a childish giggle and yanked Matthew's arm even harder. Matthew was always confused at why Alfred was so excited to skate despite the fact that skating was, what Matthew believed, the only athletic activity Alfred was horrible at.

Within half an hour, he and Alfred stood at the counter for ice skates. Ever the frequent visitor, the employees behind the counter recognized Alfred immediately and fetched a pair of size 12 skates. He then moved on to the next customer without a second glance at Matthew.

Matthew sometimes wondered if people actually made a conscious effort to ignore him.

Alfred laid a hand on the counter and leaned in to call out to the employee, "Can I get another pair of those for my brother here?"

The employee seemed surprised but less than apologetic when he returned with another pair of skates for Matthew. "Sorry about that, Al. Didn't see him." With a halfhearted sigh, Matthew took the skates from the counter, careful to avoid the sharp blades.

He turned to follow Alfred to the lockers to switch their regular shoes for skates and bumped into a tall brunette.

"Oh!" Matthew backed up and gripped his skates tightly. "I'm so sorry."

The man gave him a big grin that reminded Matthew of one of Alfred's. "No problem, _amigo_." The man had a heavy Spanish accent. His emerald eyes glittered with good cheer. Matthew wondered vaguely if they were as green as Alfred's British crush.

A shout cut over the sound of people talking, stumbling around awkwardly in their skates, and trying to find lost party members. A man with hair so pale it almost looked as though it had been bleached white waved. Were his eyes red? The Spanish man waved back. "If you'll excuse me. I should probably be going now."

Matthew was about to apologize again for running into him, but the Spaniard was already gone, lost in the mobs of people.

"Matty, hurry up and get your skates on! We've got some ice to be tearing up!"

Matthew turned and weaved through the people to get to his brother who was teetering dangerously in his skates despite having both feet on the ground.

As soon as Matthew's skates were on his feet and securely tied, Alfred grabbed his arm and dragged him out to the rink. Matthew gave futile apologies to those he bumped, though they didn't seem to really notice him.

Alfred reached the edge of the ice and halted abruptly. Matthew stumbled to a halt behind him.

"Alfred, what's wrong?"

Alfred was giving the ice a mistrusting look as though it had personally wronged him. Matthew felt a smile crack his lips. Getting on the ice had always been Alfred's biggest problem—that and trying not to fall on his butt.

Matthew slid around his brother and stepped easily onto the ice. He turned and held a hand out. "C'mon, Alfred. There are people behind you." Alfred looked over his shoulder. A little girl with pigtails and fancy white skates glared at him indignantly. Alfred grinned at her, then turned back to the ice. He looked up nervously.

"Y'know what, Matt? Why don't you go on ahead? I'm going to, uh...grab a hot chocolate."

That was Alfred-speak for, 'I'm going to mentally prepare myself _while_ grabbing a hot chocolate.'

Shrugging, Matthew turned and pushed off. A smile rose to his lips, unbidden. Easily, he skirted between families and couples alike and zipped past fallen skaters. Matthew loved skating. Matthew had embraced his skating ability on the abundance of frozen ponds in Canada during his younger days. It had been one of the only things he excelled at. If nothing else, Matthew could at least boast he was as good a skater as any other hockey player, having joined his high school's and university's teams years ago.

He saw an open patch of ice near the wall and went for it. A wave of shaved ice went flying through the air as he skidded to a stop, a triumphant grin on his lips.

"_Bonjour_."

Matthew blinked and turned to the source of the greeting. A man was standing at the edge of the rink, gripping the side tightly. The stranger's hair had been pulled loose from its ponytail; his cheeks were flushed from the cold, and his blue eyes sparkled and grew slightly wider as Matthew fully turned to face him. Matthew could feel his heart rate increase, and an odd thrill ran through him.

"_Bonjour_." He responded tentatively.

"_Enchant_é__," the stranger picked up one of Matthew's hands and brushed his lips against the knuckles. Matthew flushed and almost pulled his hand away but froze, as though under a spell, when the stranger raised his head and flashed him a brilliant smile. "If you will allow me to be so bold, _mon cher_, my name is Francis Bonnefoy. Would you like to have dinner with me this fine evening?"

Matthew was struck dumb for a few moments. Normal men do not just go around asking complete strangers out to dinner. Though apparently _Monsieur Bonnefoy_ did.

"Um."

"Francis, you stupid bastard. What the fuck are you doing?"

Matthew jumped and caught himself against the wall. Skaters around the ring glared at the same man from before with the almost whitish hair for throwing around such crude language. Upon closer inspection, Matthew could see this man's eyes were not red, merely a peculiarly dark ochre shade.

Francis' brilliant smile dimmed several watts. "Ah. Gilbert."

"Are you accosting another complete stranger? You know only _I_ can get away with that." Gilbert stated proudly. Francis raised a finely plucked brow. Matthew watched the whole exchange silently with something akin to amusement.

"That's because no one knows what to think, you stupid German."

"Prussian!"

"Gilbert, where is Antonio?" Francis asked, looking around the busy rink. "German."

"Around." Gilbert waved dismissively. "Prussian."

"_Amigos_!"

Matthew felt his head begin to spin and vaguely wondered if Alfred had gotten onto the ice yet. He contemplated fleeing but a gleam in Gilbert's eye told Matthew that would probably be a bad idea, plus this whole exchange was getting more and more interesting by the second.

"You're too damn slow." Gilbert grumbled at the man carefully skating his way towards the trio. Matthew was not entirely surprised when Antonio turned out to be the Spaniard he had bumped into before.

"Yes, well, excuse me if you have the patience of a three year old..." Antonio said, raising his nose to the air, "And German."

"Prussian!"

Francis shook his head helplessly, and Matthew's attention was drawn back to the Frenchman and his blue eyes that swept over his body from head to skate. "It seems we will have to take a rain check on that dinner, _mon cher_."

This man seemed to cast a spell over him; Matthew still could not seem to get his vocal cords working.

Already, Gilbert and Antonio were skating away, still bantering. Matthew could hear their ongoing argument, "German." "Prussian." "German." "Prussian."

"But I didn't—"

Francis winked. "_Telephonez-moi_," he said and began to slowly skate away. Francis stopped in the middle of the rink and turned halfway. "Ah, _oui_. Your name, _mon cher_?"

"Matthew Williams." Matthew blurted out before he could stop himself. Why did it seem as though he had no choice but to answer this man?

In any case, Francis looked delighted. "I hope to see you soon, _Matthieu_."

Matthew watched until Francis and his odd companions were out of sight. Certainly though, they were not out of mind. Matthew took a deep, shuddering breath. Something crinkled in his hand, and he looked down. In his fist was a sheet of paper with a name and number. When had that gotten there?

_'Francis Bonnefoy'_ the name read. A number was written below in thin, elegant handwriting.

What had Matthew just sort of agreed to?

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><p>Ta-da. First and foremost, I would like to thank George deValier for allowing me permission to steal the idea of using songs from way back when as the basis for this story. In this case, it is a song originally sung by Peggy Lee during the 1950s (the link can be found below). This story, unlike George deValier's, takes place in modern day times since I don't think they had sliding glass doors in the 1950s even in New York. Hopefully this story won't end up getting too out of hand and should have five or so chapters. Anyways, if you've the time, please look up the lyrics to this song since the lyrics sort of set the tone for these chapters. I hope you enjoyed this first chapter. Please continue to support my endeavors as I come out of my lengthy hiatus. A million thanks to my new beta, Kay, who is going to be doing the editing for this story. I was shocked and a bit nauseated at some of the sentences I had previously written. I don't know what I was thinking, but my thanks go out to Kay for setting me straight.<p>

Peggy Lee's "Mr. Wonderful" - /watch?v=qOS4DBatLBI

Notes for translation:

_Enchanté _is basically, 'enchanted to meet you'.

_Telephonez-moi_ is basically 'call me'.

-CeeKim


	2. Chapter 2

"Mr. Wonderful" a Franada fanfic

Chapter Two

AU. After a lifetime of being forgotten and living in the shadows, lowly secretary Matthew Williams no longer believes in achieving his dreams. Following an unexpected collision with an odd French man with sparkling blue eyes, Matthew, for once, finds himself at the center of someone's world.

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><p>In the next week, Matthew did everything in his power to forget about Francis Bonnefoy—his sparkling blue eyes, his dashing smile, his number, which Matthew had already memorized...<p>

It was a foolish and outlandish hope to think that someone like Francis would be interested in a plain, boring nobody like Matthew. Everything about Francis had screamed confidence, even his wobbly skating on perfectly defined legs, which, Matthew suspected, were sculpted with muscle. After a lifetime of hoping, then having it torn away, Matthew refused to believe the breathless feeling he got in his chest whenever he thought about the Frenchman.

Besides, he didn't have the time to be thinking about a romance. He had his work to be focusing on.

At the moment, Alfred was in the conference room being briefed about his next business trip. Once he emerged, it would be Matthew's job to find an appropriate flight, book a hotel, make sure Alfred had a car, and, if the trip required one, find a translator. Yes. There was plenty to do. Plenty to do, plenty to work on, plenty to think about—all of which did _not_ include a certain Francis Bonnefoy.

The light on his desk began flashing. Matthew stood, perplexed, and began heading towards to conference room. Alfred almost never paged him during meetings.

Matthew quietly rapped his knuckles on the oak door of the conference room. "Um... Alfred, sir, you needed me?"

"Come on in, Matty." Alfred's loud voice was unmistakable.

"P-pardon me," Matthew opened the door just enough to peek his head through. "Yes?"

Alfred sat at the head of the table, piles of papers scattered all around him. On the whiteboard behind Alfred, there was a cartoon-like drawing of what Matthew assumed was a human wearing a bandanna with his arms around the earth. Matthew refrained from commenting.

"Matt, you speak French, right?"

In addition to Italian, German, and a bit of Spanish, but Matthew figured that would be too much unnecessary information. He opted for bobbing his head lightly. "Yes."

A grin lit his brother's face. "Rockin'. So you can come with me to France, then."

Matthew felt his chest flutter. "Excuse me? France?"

Alfred's grin lost wattage. "Yeah. That _is_ where Paris is, right?"

Matthew was beginning to feel only a bit lost as he stuttered a response. "Yes, but why do you need me to come along? I can hire you a translator, so you don't really need me there—"

"Nonsense. You've been working hard. You deserve a vacation. And since I'm going there anyways, I figure, why not?"

"Yes, but—"

Alfred's smile dimmed even further. His blue eyes began to look teary and faintly puppy-dog like. "Do you not want to go with me?"

Matthew's hesitation wavered as stared at Alfred's kicked puppy face. When Alfred's lip began to wobble, Matthew sighed and caved. "All right, fine. Just stop giving me that look."

Alfred's wide grin was back in full force. "I knew I could count on you, Matty. Thanks a million. Why don't you go and take the rest of the day to pack and stuff?"

"Yes, sir." Matthew withdrew his head and closed the door quietly. He had the sinking feeling that he had just been suckered. Alfred's muffled, raucous laughter confirmed said feeling. Why was it that he was never able to say no to Alfred? For that matter, why was it he could never say no to _anyone_?

Then again... Francis _had_ asked Matthew to call him. A week had passed since then, and while Francis seemed to occupy Matthew's every waking thought, Matthew had somehow managed to not call the number written in elegant scrawl. That counted, right? The area code written on the card Francis had given him placed the number in Manhattan. Guiltily, Matthew hoped this meant that despite Francis' heavy French accent, his permanent residence was in the US. He had no idea how he would behave if he were to see Francis Bonnefoy again. Francis couldn't have had a serious interest in _him_ of all people. He was probably just one of those people who was naturally friendly and apparently handed out his number to random strangers.

Matthew closed his briefcase with a little more force than necessary.

"Enough." He said sharply. "It's time to forget about him. I'll probably never meet him again anyways."

His heart fell a little at the thought of not seeing the strange yet highly attractive Frenchman again. He picked up his briefcase with a cough. Matthew paused a moment at the glass doors, reached into his pocket and hesitated, then dropped the scrap of paper with Francis' number on it into the trash can without a second thought.

.

Between the plane ride the following day and pulling Alfred off a startled, blond British man upon arriving in France, Matthew was ready to go back to the hotel and sleep. However, Alfred, with his boundless energy, thought differently, and Matthew wearily dragged his feet as he was forced in the direction of _La Petite Feuille D'Erable—_a popular bar a few blocks away from where Alfred and Matthew's hotel was.

Monsieur Didier Duval, the man Alfred had been in talks with since midday, gestured to a couple of seats at the counter. "_Mes amis, asseyez-vous. Vit! Vit!_"

Alfred looked a bit put off. "Who is 'Miss Amy'?"

Matthew gave a polite smile to the jolly Frenchman inside and leaned over to whisper in Alfred's ear, just a little exasperated. "_Mes amis_. He's calling us his friends and telling us to hurry and sit down."

"Oh," Alfred grinned and waved to Monsieur Duval. "'How's your food' to you too! We'll be right there!"

Matthew massaged his throbbing temples. "_Asseyez-vous_, Alfred. Not 'how's your food'. Now hurry and go inside. I'll see you later."

"You're not gonna drink with us?"

"Not tonight. I'm a little tired from the jet lag."

Alfred frowned a little. "Do you need me to come with you? I know it's France and everything, but you never know what kinds of people are lurking around."

Matthew snorted softly. Alfred's conspiracy theories got to be a much bit sometimes even if they were thought up with the best of intentions. "I'll be fine, Alfred," he insisted. "Go enjoy yourself."

Alfred still looked indecisive. "If you're sure, Matt. I can call a cab if you really aren't feeling well."

"No need, _monsieur_."

Matthew thought he felt his heart stop. _Oh God. He can't be here. There's no possible way he can be here._ But he was. Beautiful blue eyes twinkled back at him even in the shadows, shoulder length blonde hair brushed against the stubble on an angular jawline, and the corners to his lips were turned upwards in a knee-weakening smile.

"Oh." Matthew couldn't help the surprised gasp.

"I believe I can escort him back to the hotel." The mischievous sparkle in Francis' eyes gave Matthew the feeling that escorting wasn't all Francis would try to do. The thought sent shivers racing up and down Matthew's spine.

Alfred seemed awfully confused by all this. "Uh. What's the deal with the Frenchie, Matt?" He fixed Francis with a suspicious gaze, seemingly unaffected by the dazzling blue eyes that were turned on him.

Matthew could feel his ears grow red. He whirled on Alfred, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. "Alfred, hush! He can understand you."

"Oh." Alfred met Francis' gaze squarely, raising his chin in defiance. "Okay, then. What's the deal with you, frog face? How do you know my brother, and how do I know you won't do something vile to him when I'm not watching?"

In a matter of seconds, Matthew's face grew from bright red to bone white. He could not keep the disbelief off his face at Alfred's choice of words. How did Alfred even know that phrase? Not for the first time in his life, Matthew debated strangling Alfred.

Francis just smiled amiably. "You don't, _monsieur_."

Aside from the background chatter, and Monsieur Duval shouting, '_vit! vit!_' again, the air was silent as Francis and Alfred stared at one another. For once, Matthew actually _tried _to vanish. Suddenly, Alfred's jarring laughter made Matthew jump.

"You're a funny guy. I like you." Alfred clapped Francis' shoulder. "Matty!"

Matthew jumped, dreading what would come out of his brother's mouth next.

"I will permit you to go back to the hotel with this strange frog. Just so long as he doesn't touch you or try anything funny," Alfred paused to shoot a glare back at Francis, "So I won't be tempted to tell Ivan that he was the one who killed the crazy commie's sunflower patch."

"But Alfred, _you_ killed Ivan's sunflower patch."

"Which is a detail that he won't need to know." Alfred replied with a bright grin. "And so, off you go!"

He got behind Matthew and Francis and pushed them forward. "Bye, nice meeting you, frog. And remember what I said; don't make me tell my buddy about what you didn't do. He's Russian, you know."

All at once, Matthew felt more tired than he had been five minutes ago. Before Alfred could launch into a series of other threats, Matthew grabbed Francis' hand and began to walk away fast enough that the Frenchman almost had to trot in order to keep up. "Let's go," he insisted under his breath. "You really don't want him threatening you any more. Ivan is bad enough without him setting Yao on your tail too."

Approximately five blocks later, Matthew had slowed down enough to realize that even with the distance he and Francis had covered, it would be more prudent to hail a taxicab, and also that he was still holding Francis' hand. He released Francis' warm, large hand quickly, stuttering an apology, "Oh. I'm—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—" He felt his heart catch in his throat when Francis seized the hand back.

"If you do not have any pressing matters to attend to, Matthew, could I offer you a drink or two?"

Matthew's gaze was still focused on their clasped hands. "Uh. I don't... I don't think that's a good idea." He mumbled. Matthew's brain was starting to turn mush; he knew it.

"And why not?"

"B-because... because I—" Matthew stuttered, determined not to look Francis in the eye. He got the bad feeling that if he did, he would have no choice but to agree.

"_Matthieu_," Francis' voice was soft and the way he said Matthew's name sent a ball of heat coiling in his stomach. "Look at me."

Matthew's resolve lasted about two seconds before he obeyed and looked up at Francis who smiled when their eyes met. Francis squeezed Matthew's hand. "Come. I know a wonderful place just down the road. I promise I will not give your friend a reason to set this Russian man after me." His eyes crinkled playfully. "That is, if you Americans can hold your liquor."

Despite his breathlessness, a laugh rose unbidden to Matthew's lips. After all, what could one or two drinks hurt?

Matthew's heart pounded a little faster as he gripped Francis' hand tighter, returning his grin. He felt a sense of recklessness come over him. He liked it. "Don't you worry about me, _monsieur_." Matthew noted the dark flash behind Francis' eyes at his use of French. "_Je suis Canadien_, and we can hold our liquor quite well."

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><p>Thanks for the reviews. It makes me grin like a fool when I get them. Thanks to all my readers, all the fans of Franada, and my awesome beta, Kay. Hopefully I'll have the next chapter edited and up sooner than later, but I have my stupid real-life problems to take care of. Ah,<em> c'est la vie. <em>I actually have no idea how well Canadians hold their liquor, so if I've perhaps offended anyone, I apologize.

Again, if you haven't heard Peggy Lee's version of "Mr. Wonderful," I really recommend it. You can find it here: /watch?v=qOS4DBatLBI

_Notes for translation:_

__La Petite Feuille D'Erable—__The Little Maple Leaf (Get it? Cause Matt's from Canada. Maple Leaf...ha.)

___"Mes amis, asseyez-vous. Vit! Vit!"—___"My friends, sit down! Quickly! Quickly!"

____"Je suis Canadien."—___I am Canadian._

__C'est la vie—__Such is life.

-CeeKim


	3. Chapter 3

"Mr. Wonderful" a Franada fanfic

Chapter Three

AU. After years of living in the shadows, secretary Matthew Williams no longer believes in achieving his dreams. After an unexpected meeting with a French man with sparkling blue eyes, Matthew, for once, finds himself at the center of someone's world.

* * *

><p><em>Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy. But I'd like your feedback, so review maybe?<em>

* * *

><p>Matthew was torn between staring at Francis' face or their clasped hands.<p>

"Mark my words, Matthieu. Once you have tasted the Cabernet Sauvignon here, all other wines shall pale in comparison."

"Oh?" Matthew was busy marveling at how well their hands seemed to fit.

"Here we are."

Matthew looked up and gave a short, startled laugh. He turned to Francis, a smile rising unbidden to his lips. "_L'Ours Blanc_?"

"_Mais, oui. L'Ours Blanc._ A creature of great majesty, _n'est pas_?" Francis spread his arms wide and winked at him. Matthew's helpless smile grew wider.

"It's my favorite animal, actually."

Francis raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Is it now? It seems I know you better than I thought, _chéri_."

Matthew flushed. No one would think he and Francis were complete strangers judging by the way they were flirting.

"Fancy a drink, _monsieur_?" Francis took a step towards the pub and squeezed his hand, head cocked, eyes sparkling in a way that made Matthew breathless.

There was a moment of hesitation as Matthew paused, wondering why he was even doing this. Francis was dashing and suave and utterly confident; it hardly seemed a good idea to follow a man whose motives were questionable at best.

But the way Francis' lips were quirked ever so slightly made Matthew smile back and allow himself to be led into the pub, jumping at Francis' warm hand at the small of his back.

The interior was gorgeous. The ceiling was decorated with wood lattice interlaced with ivy. The lighting was soft yet bright enough to see clearly. There were tables spread all throughout the room, and almost every single one of them was occupied. Against the far wall was a crowded bar with a pretty, green-eyed girl rushing back and forth behind it. Her head jerked up sharply at the opening door. She heaved a sigh of relief when she saw Francis before her eyes slid over to Matthew and grew stormy.

Matthew was beginning to suspect he had done something wrong until she threw a rag at Francis' head, which he dodged with what seemed like practiced ease before she burst into an angry stream of French. The men sitting at the bar chuckled in amusement as if this was an ordinary occurrence.

"Mind your language, Belle," Francis said with calm, measured patience, "We have a guest."

Belle took a deep, controlled breath and pursed her lips into a thin line as she glanced briefly at Matthew. Her gaze regained its annoyance when she turned to look back at Francis and snap at him in French. "You left me to work the bar alone to pick up some _American_? It's a Friday night, for heaven's sake, _François_. You were supposed to go and pick up another case of rum, not some brainless, American foreigner. Did you even buy the rum like I asked?! I can't believe you, _François..._"

_Brainless, American foreigner..._

"Now hold on a minute. I am not an American, I'm Canadian. I think you ought to know more about a person before accusing them of being 'brainless, American foreigner. Appearances aren't always what they seem, you know. Just because I might look an American doesn't mean I am. It's true that Americans can be loud and bossy and possibly the biggest assholes in the entire world, but Canadians are _not_ like that. And furthermore..." It wasn't until he noticed both Francis and Belle were staring at him that he realized...he had said that aloud, hadn't he? He attempted to salvage the situation. "And it wasn't Francis' fault. Um," he faltered, then continued in perfect French, "You see, we just bumped into each other on the street, and I took him away because my brother was getting suspicious. I didn't know he was supposed to be doing something, and I'm very sorry if I caused you any problems. If you need me to, I can get the rum for you if you'd like, I mean, to keep from causing you any further trouble. I really am sorry, eh..."

He trailed off, face burning, desperately wishing he could just go back to the hotel and sleep forever.

Belle's face grew red, and she cleared her throat. "Fine. Whatever. Francis, go do something about that stupid Brit. He just finished off our last bottle of rum and tried to start a fight with some kind of imaginary rabbit."

Matthew watched as Belle hurried over to the other side of the bar.

"She means sorry." Francis said, smiling helplessly. "Now, how about a drink, darling?"

"Um. What about the...uh...'stupid Brit'?" Matthew vaguely wondered if this British man was Alfred's green-eyed love. Francis tried to smile even as his shoulders sagged.

"Ah, yes. Him. Well, he should hopefully be too drunk to—"

"Francis! There you are, you bloody frog, you."

Francis pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a tense sigh. A green eyed man was making his way over to them, while at the same time managing to knock over three chairs and spill four customers' drinks. Matthew assumed this was the "stupid Brit" Belle had referred to.

"God damn it man, I've been waiting for you since bloody six o' clock, you bloody, bloody, bloody..." Arthur trailed off, hiccuping and muttering under his alcohol-stained breath.

"Oh, _Mon Dieu_," Francis covered his nose with a disgusted sound, "Arthur, you smell positively revolting."

Arthur fixed Francis with a bleary, green-eyed stare. His blond hair stuck up in every direction. Even his caterpillar-like eyebrows looked messy. Matthew remembered Alfred saying something about how his British crush's eyebrows were "awesome." Then, Arthur turned and focused on him, or at least tried to.

"And you!" Arthur pointed a pale finger three inches above and to the left of Matthew's head. "Why do you look like this one wanker who spilled coffee on me in the bloody United States? What are you, his bloody twin or something?"

"Um."

"Right bloody wanker, not telling me he had a twin. I know some twins, you know. Couple of stupid, Italian trollops, they are. Oh, but you wouldn't tell me something like that, would you? I'm just a limey fruitcake to you Yanks, aren't I, _aren't I_? Well, I tell you what, you dimwitted Yank, I hate you. All blond haired and blue eyed and handsome, with gorgeous smiles and your insufferable accents and messing up the good old English language. You know what I think of that? Bollocks! Bollocks, I tell you!"

Matthew started to feel very inadequate and overwhelmed once Arthur began to sniffle. A warm breath on his ear made his cheeks flush.

"Let me handle this, Matthieu."

"Oh." Matthew said breathlessly. "Okay."

Matthew focused on remembering how to breathe as Francis confronted Arthur. Arthur glared up at Francis as if a little confused as to where he came from. "What do _you_ want, you frog? I'm trying to have a bloody, polite conversation."

Francis made a disgusted face as he bent over to whisper conspiratorially in Arthur's ear, "Arthur, _mon ami_, would you like me to tell your American friend about the incident with the marriage registration form?"

Even in Arthur's drunken state, Francis' words made him freeze. Arthur's pale face drained until it was nearly white. He coughed and attempted to straighten himself. "Right. Well then. Francis, you still have those guest bedrooms upstairs, right? Good. I'll be in mine. Good night to the both of you." He saluted to the open air above Matthew's shoulder before turning and stumbling up a flight of stairs.

Matthew felt himself letting out a quiet sigh.

Francis ran a hand through his hair as he turned around. The smile he offered Matthew was so sweet and apologetic that Matthew nearly felt himself apologizing. "I am sorry about that, Matthieu. He can be _un vrai con_ sometimes. Would you still like that drink?"

A smile rose to Matthew's lips. "Yes, of course."

Francis gently took a hold of Matthew's elbow and steered him over to an empty table in a dark corner of the bar. "_Un moment, s'il vous plaît_." He winked at Matthew before heading towards the bar.

Once Francis was out of hearing distance, Matthew took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He didn't know why but for some reason being with Francis made him feel lightheaded. Like everything was moving too fast for Matthew to concentrate on one thing. He hadn't missed the glances Francis had been giving him out of the corner of his eye when he thought Matthew wasn't paying attention, or the glances Belle kept sending his way as she and Francis spoke at the bar. And that bit about the marriage registration form. He still didn't know Francis' motives behind inviting him here tonight.

The dim lights overhead looked like fuzzy yellow dots in Matthew's peripheral. They cast a soft glow over his hands, which were spread out on the table. He looked up again at Francis and Belle. Belle's back was turned; it looked like she was pouring drinks. Francis was still saying something to her. The quiet white noise made it impossible for Matthew to hear what they were saying. Belle turned back around and handed Francis a couple of crystal glasses filled with a deep, reddish-purple wine. When Francis took the glasses and began to turn back towards the table, Matthew quickly returned his gaze back to his hands. Why was he so worried about Francis catching him staring?

Francis' smooth voice interrupted him. "Your Cabernet, _monsieur_."

A delicate glass was placed gently on the table in between his spread hands. Matthew looked up and returned Francis' small smile. "Thank you." He said.

Francis sat in the chair opposite Matthew and swirled the wine glass. "You looked deep in thought, _mon cher_. Is something the matter?" Francis' eyes were still beautiful and gentle and smiling but were darkened by a hint of concern.

"I'm fine." Matthew responded softly.

"Not regretting your decision to have a drink with me, are you?" Francis winked, and Matthew chuckled, easing the tension.

"Of course not. I think it's the best decision I have made all night." Matthew winked back, making Francis' eyes crease into a smile.

Francis tilted his head back and sipped at his wine. When he looked back at Matthew, there was a darker, more flirtatious glint in his eye. "Perhaps not _all_ night, _chéri_."

Matthew felt his blush return in full. He ducked his head and took a bigger gulp of his wine than he meant to and began to cough. He felt Francis' hand patting his back gently as he attempted to clear his throat. Once Matthew could breathe again, he lifted his head and wiped away a tear from his eye. Francis' hand was still rubbing circles on his back, and the look in Francis' eyes rendered Matthew breathless.

"Oh..." Matthew grasped desperately at something to talk about, "S-so what is it you do?"

Francis slowly withdrew his hand, leaving Matthew's back feeling quite cold.

"I suppose you could say I work the night scene."

Matthew just stared.

"Not remotely what I meant, my dear."

Matthew looked around the bar, not quite as full as when they had walked in. He took in the wood paneled walls, the lattice-decorated ceiling, the warm, safe feeling the bar exuded, the romantic lighting caused by the twinkling lights on the ceiling. Then he understood.

"This bar is yours?"

The proud gleam in Francis' eyes was his response. "It is a family owned business. Started in 1920, survived through the _la Grande Dépression_ and the Second World War. It used to be owned by our grandfather who served in the war. He was an intelligence agent, and a bit of a flirt."

Matthew raised an eyebrow at Francis' mildly hypocritical statement but chose not to comment. "Our?"

"Oh, _desolé_. Mine and Belle's. We're distant cousins."

Oh. Belle's obvious familiarity and behavior towards Francis made more sense now.

"And you?"

Matthew's head jerked up quickly. He stared wide-eyed at Francis.

"What is it that you do, _Matthieu_?"

Matthew felt himself hesitate. He took another sip of the wine and paused. "I'm a secretary."

"For your brother?"

Matthew nodded, feeling a kind of quiet pride wash over him. "He's the head of the company. He inherited it from his father and put it back at the top of the business world."

"You two do not have the same father?"

Matthew's lips tightened a little. "No. We're half brothers, born from different mothers. That's why I lived in Canada until recently," he didn't know why he was talking this much, but he couldn't stop, "A month ago, he called me for the first time since he took over the company and asked me to come to New York and work for him. So I did."

"I see." Francis' voice was thoughtful. "What did you do in Canada?"

"I was an assistant coach for a children's hockey team in my home town." Matthew ran a thumb over a scar on his hand. "It paid all right but not well enough. I needed something with a better financial income, and that's when Alfred called. So I left to come work for him—"

"What happened to your hands?" Francis interrupted. He reached over and picked up both of Matthew's hands.

The faded scars on his hands suddenly seemed so white and ugly when placed in Francis' large, soft ones.

"Oh...um. This one," Matthew lifted his right hand for emphasis, "is when one of my teammates skated over my hand at a practice."

Francis ran a thumb over the scar gingerly; his touch made Matthew's hand feel like it was on fire. "And this one?" Francis was gripping Matthew's fingertips on his left hand.

The middle and ring finger on his left hand were slightly bent. Matthew winced at the ugly sight as Francis rubbed the joints on his fingers.

"I, uh, got into a fight."

This seemed to surprise Francis. His eyebrows went up, and he turned his bright blue-eyed gaze to Matthew. "A fight, _chéri_? You hardly seem the type."

Matthew could feel himself blushing. He shrugged and focused on his misaligned fingers. "This guy kept fouling me during a game...so I...got mad and punched him."

Francis was silent, and Matthew panicked just as silently. Oh no. That had been a mistake. He shouldn't have told Francis he had been in a fight. Now Francis wouldn't want to see him anymore because he would think Matthew was a violent, impulsive wreck. Then, Francis surprised him when he turned to the side and began to laugh silently but hysterically.

"Oh...oh..." Francis' face grew alarmingly red as he laughed helplessly. Matthew wondered if he should remind Francis to breathe.

Eventually, Francis' hysterical laughter slowed enough for him to wipe away tears, take a calming sip of wine, and regard Matthew with sparkling eyes.

"Oh, my dear. You are truly a surprise."

Matthew raised his brow in what he hoped was a coy movement, but he probably just looked ridiculous. "The good kind?"

Francis picked up Matthew's hand and pressed a gentle kiss to his knuckles. His breath was slow and warm, his eyes bright and smoldering. "With you? Always."

Gently but firmly, he pulled away from Francis' grip and downed the rest of his wine, hoping it would calm his racing heart. "Um, s-so. Why were you in America?" What a subtle way to change the topic.

Matthew knew right away that he had hit a sore spot. All of a sudden, Francis seemed uncomfortable. There was a dark, uncertain look behind his sparkling, blue eyes, and it did not suit him. He seemed hesitant to answer, and when he finally opened his mouth, Matthew cut in quickly, "Oh, nevermind. That was rude of me to ask about your personal business. Um...what are your hobbies? I like skating."

Wonderful. How eloquent. Nearly single-handedly, Matthew was turning their first date, if that was what this was, into an awkward mess one would see on a sitcom. Despite that, Francis seemed to relax a little. There was relief in the small smile he gave Matthew, which made him smile back and eased the cold feeling of guilt in his stomach.

"I am afraid I am a man of simple tastes. I enjoy _mes amis_, however irritating they can be, drinking wine, and," he winked, "people watching. It was how I found you that day in _la Grande Pomme_."

Matthew reddened. Now that he mentioned it, Matthew had thought it strange a complete, random stranger would even notice Matthew, let alone ask to have dinner with him.

"So, those two you were with...?"

"Yes, _mes meilleurs amis_. The hyperactive Spaniard and the obnoxious German."

Matthew could have sworn he heard a hissed whisper of, _'Prussian,'_ but the bar was now completely vacant.

"They seem..." Matthew searched for the word, "...nice."

Francis chuckled bemusedly. "I suppose if you would like to describe them like that. Ah, but they are good friends. We've known each other since we were children. _Le Mauvaise Trio d'Amis—_the Bad Friends Trio—some would call us." Francis voice was fond, and a light danced in his eyes that spoke of fun times and good memories. Matthew didn't know why really, but seeing Francis with that gentle smile on his face made his heart melt more than Francis' flirtier grins.

_"Why this feeling, why this glow?_  
><em>Why the thrill when you say, 'Hello?'"<em>

A pretty, delicate voice filled the bar. Matthew twisted in his chair to look at the bar where the song was coming from. A CD player sat behind the bar where Belle had been, but Francis' cousin was nowhere to be seen. The song kept playing:

_"It's a strange and tender magic you do._  
><em>Mister Wonderful, that's you."<em>

Matthew blinked, surprised. "Who is this?"

"_Mademoiselle_ Peggy Lee. Truly _magnifique_." Francis winked. "For an _Américaine_."

The singer's voice was soft and wistful and punctuated by jazz trumpets. The music re-entered, and Francis joined in. Matthew looked at him in surprise—though it was probably more awe at Francis' singing voice.

"_Why this trembling when you speak? Why this joy when you touch my cheek?_" Francis' voice was a gentle tenor and provided a beautiful contrast with the high, sweet melody. Matthew jumped when Francis reached out and brushed his fingers across his cheek. Francis' eyes were smoldering as he gazed at Matthew. The song continued. "_I must tell you what my heart knows is true. Mister Wonderful, that's you._"

Matthew felt caught off guard and breathless and dizzy all at once. The evening that had been relatively tame had now turned into Francis serenading Matthew with an American song that, despite his accent, still managed to sound perfect.

Francis' eyes looked bluer than ever before, and Matthew felt drawn towards them try as he might to keep a respectable distance. As he got closer, Matthew noticed a subtle, musky, woodsy kind of scent emanating off Francis. It stole Matthew's breath,and he was helpless to fight it.

Once he felt Francis' breath ghost across his lips, Matthew gave in. Onlookers be damned. He closed his eyes, leaned in, and—

"Get a room!"

Matthew jerked backwards so hard he was certain he had gotten whiplash. He hunched his shoulders and stared into his lap, face cherry red, avoiding Belle's eyes as she loomed over them and frowned. He was embarrassed, but at the same time, quite annoyed too. Francis seemed to feel the same way, just less embarrassed. He glared at his cousin. "_Merde_, Belle—"

"There are still customers here, _François_." Indeed there were. "Take your _petit ami_ elsewhere, and _then_ you can have your way with him. Not here."

Matthew face continued to burn red, and he refused to meet Belle's gaze even as Francis took him by the hand and pulled him towards a door next to the bar.

What had he been doing? There were still people in the room, and yet Matthew had been completely prepared to make out with Francis then and there. Matthew hesitated for a moment. Maybe this was a bad idea. After all, he was rushing into things. This was only the second time he and Francis had seen each other, but when Francis smiled at him over his shoulder, the corners of his eyes crinkling oh so handsomely, he gave up.

While his brain insisted that it was a bad idea to get so deeply involved with Francis and that there was sure to be a mountain of problems that would only lead to Matthew getting hurt, his heart told him to keep going, whatever the consequences.

"I apologize for my cousin, Matthieu. She has the worst timing."

Matthew hesitated. "Oh. That's all right. I...don't really mind." He said even though he wasn't sure he meant it. Francis looked skeptical but didn't press the issue as they stopped in front of a closed room at the end of the hall.

Almost like he was hesitant to let go, Francis pulled his hand from Matthew's to dig for a key in his pocket. Dazedly, Matthew watched, thoughts swirling in the back of his mind that were both nerve-wracking and promising. He was pulled from his thoughts by a click from the door as the tumblers unlocked, and Francis pushed the door open gently.

"And this is my room."

Compared to the outside, the room was deceptively large...and surprisingly plain. The walls were bare and white, and two simple, wooden dressers were pushed up against the wall. No pictures, no knick-knacks, no personal belongings. The only evidence that the room belonged to Francis was shown in the same rows of softly twinkling lights from the bar and a large bed that took up most of the room and seemed very out of place in relation to everything else.

"It's..." _Plain_. "Nice."

"Please, have a seat," Francis gestured to the bed and held out his other hand towards Matthew, "Your coat, _monsieur_?"

"Oh!" Matthew twisted hurriedly to get his coat off and hand it to Francis. "Thank you."

Francis just smiled and draped the coat over the head board. He approached slowly and leaned in until Matthew thought his heart would burst it was beating so fast.

"Tell me, _Matthieu._" Matthew wasn't sure his reaction whenever Francis called him in _that_ tone would ever stop. "Do you have any place to be tonight?"

"I...um..." Matthew was almost completely certain he _did_, in fact, have some place to be tonight, but for the love of the maple leaf, he could not recall what it was. Not when Francis was kissing him like that. Softly, gently, Francis' lips brushed against his until his brain fired enough neurons to respond. He tried moving his lips as sensually as Francis, and probably failed miserably. He was glad when Francis ignored his lack of skill in kissing and instead pressed Matthew backwards until he had to steady himself on his elbows.

Still, with every movement, every pausing breath, the anxious feeling in his stomach grew. All of this. It was happening much too fast, and yet Matthew couldn't find the words to ask Francis to stop. They were caught in his throat and made it feel hard to breathe.

Barely the second time they had met and Matthew was already in bed with Francis, so to speak, and Francis' lips were on his neck now and...and then it was too much. He could feel adrenaline shooting through his veins, making his hands tremble, and the sheer speed everything was happening put a lump in his throat. The way things were progressing now, it was as though...

Matthew opening his eyes a crack to look at Francis, apparently absorbed in his ministrations.

It was as though Francis was just in it for the pleasure. Matthew could feel a hot coil racing down his spine, and while he did like Francis—he did—it felt too much like a one-night stand. It was more upsetting than Matthew realized, and he reached a hand out to push against Francis' chest.

Slowly, Matthew scooted backwards until his back was against the headrest. He could feel the guilt and disappointment sitting like a cold, hard rock in his stomach, but he just couldn't do it.

"Look, Francis. I want a relationship, not an overseas fling..." He hesitated, then told himself to man up. It would do neither of them any good if he wasn't clear. "I'm sorry if I led you on, but I—"

_"Matt, hey! Answer your phone! I recorded this so you would pick up! Can you hear me bro? Heeeyyy."_

The voice of his brother interrupted him and kept going, repeating variations of his name and demands to answer the phone. Matthew wasn't sure if he was embarrassed beyond belief or so grateful to his brother who somehow had the best timing in the world. When had Alfred even made that his ringtone, anyways?

"I should probably..." He trailed off.

Francis smiled and nodded kindly in understanding, but the emotion in his eyes was subdued and...reflective?

As much as Matthew wanted to figure out what Francis was thinking, his brother's voice was getting a bit annoying. He pressed the 'accept call' button on his phone but was only able to get out, "Alfred," before his brother interrupted him.

"_Hey, listen, you she-male Frenchie. Matt? Matt! What have you done to my brother, you frog? If you've done anything to Matthew, I swear I'll—_"

"Alfred, I'm fine!" shouted Matthew.

"_Matt! Oh thank goodness you're all right. Where are you? I'll pick you up. That she-male hasn't done anything to you, has he-she?_"

Matthew sighed in exasperation, even though he knew his brother meant well. "I'm fine, Alfred." When there was no response, he gingerly pressed the phone a little closer to his ear. "Alfred?"

"_Bro, I thought you were headed back to the room. When I got back, you weren't here and I panicked. Who knows what these Frenchies are capable of on their home turf._" Alfred sounded upset.

Try as he might, Matthew couldn't stay mad at his brother for long. Alfred was a fool, but a good-hearted fool nonetheless. "I'm sorry, Alfred. Where are you right now?" Knowing his brother, Alfred would most likely try to contact the CIA and enlist their help to find Matthew.

_"Back at La Pet It...La Purtive...La...back at the pub."_

"All right. Don't do anything rash. I'll..." he hesitated, risking a glance backwards at Francis. Francis just smiled and held out his coat for him. "...be right there."

There was a pause on the other line, and then Alfred said, "_Fine. I'll be waiting here. Be safe, Matt._"

Matthew lowered the phone from his ear and steadfastly refused to look at Francis. He wanted to explain to Francis why he'd agreed to come here with him in the first place, but he needed to go find Alfred. And besides, what else was there to say at this point? There was a hard lump in his throat. He blurted out, "Francis, I'm so—"

Francis moved quickly and pressed a finger to Matthew's lips. Matthew froze instantly. "Say nothing, _chéri_. Your brother, he is important to you, _non_?"

With Francis' finger still on his lips, Matthew could only nod.

"Then it is all right. He is your family, and beautiful people like you should not be so sad. I am sorry for misunderstanding what you wanted." Francis' voice was too smooth and gentle for someone who had pretty much been cock-blocked.

Matthew nodded and stared at his feet, "I should probably be going now. Um. Goodbye." He quickly rushed away, desperate to leave that awfully awkward situation behind him.

The air outside was nippy, but refreshing on his skin. He took a deep breath and looked around to get his bearings. The night was still young, and large groups of pedestrians passed by, none of them sparing a glance for the red-faced Canadian.

With a heavy heart full of disappointment and dashed hopes, Matthew easily blended into the crowd and began walking in the direction of the pub.

Then, suddenly, he was dragged sideways out of the crowd, "Matthieu, please wait."

Matthew felt his stomach do a flip, though from anticipation or dread, he could not tell. He could see the quick puffs of Francis' breath in the cold air, and Francis was not wearing a coat either. He just turned and faced the Frenchman, waiting silently for him to say something.

"One more," said Francis through his panting.

Matthew raised a brow quizzically. "One more...?"

Francis looked up at him through his blond bangs, "I want to go on a date."

"A...a date?" Had Francis not seem how spectacularly _this _date—if that's what it was—had gone? Now he wanted another one?

"A proper one," Francis continued, "I wasn't fair to you. I want to try again."

Matthew was still very confused; the meaning behind Francis' words still hadn't fully hit him. "But I leave tomorrow," was all he could think to say.

"Tomorrow morning. Breakfast at _Café_ _du Ciel_," Francis' eyes locked with Matthew's. "_S'il vous plaît_."

* * *

><p>By the time Matthew got back to the pub where he had left Alfred, he was red-faced and panting. Alfred stared at him but said nothing. Alfred waited a minute to let Matthew catch his breath, and then led him over to a waiting taxi.<p>

Just as silently, the brothers entered the cab.

Matthew flinched when Alfred spoke. "So...why do you like this guy so much?"

Matthew paused a moment to think. To think about how apparently skilled Francis was at seduction and what that meant, how Francis had chased after him and asked to see him one more time despite the awful way the night had ended, and how earnest Francis had seemed to want to try again. Did he like Francis for his looks, his accomplishments, his ability to seduce anything that walked on two legs? Or did he like him for his ability to just listen, his gentleness, and how much he honestly seemed to like Matthew?

Finally, Matthew settled on, "For his obliques."

"...You like him for his obliques."

"Yes."

Needless to say, the rest of the ride was silent as Alfred pondered that confusing statement, and Matthew stared at the mesmerizing lights of Paris as they whirled by.

* * *

><p>Translation Notes:<p>

_Mais, oui_—__But of course

_L'Ours Blanc—_Polar bear

_N'est pas?—_Is that not so?

_Un moment, s'il vous plaît_—One moment, please__  
><em>_

_la Grande Dépression_—the Great Depression

_Desolé_—Sorry

___la Grande Pomme_—___The Big Apple (New York City)_

__Mes meilleurs amis_—___My best friends

___Merde_—____Shit

_Petit ami_—__literally this translates to 'small friend' but in context, it means boyfriend.

_Café_ _du Ciel—_Heaven's Cafe

_S'il vous plaît_—__Please

* * *

><p>I sincerely apologize for that little bit of Carly Rae Jepsen. She has been on the radio so much that I could not resist. So listen to one of the most annoying songs on the face of the earth and review. Merci.<p>

-CeeKim


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